Wolf stuck out his underlip at the oracular thorn-tree and strode on. What he asked now, of that grey luminosity above him and of those diaphanous wraithlike corn-shocks, was why there should be, between his deepest desire and his complicated activity, such an unbridged gulf?

He had only one life. That was a basic and relentless fact. An eternity of “something or other” lay behind him, and an equally obscure eternity of “something or other” lay in front of him. Meanwhile, here he was, with only one single, simple, and world-deep craving⁠—the craving to spend his days and his nights with that other mysterious and mortal consciousness, entitled Christie Malakite! And yet, for reasons comparatively superficial, reasons comparatively external to his secret life-current, he was steadily, day by day, month by month, building up barriers between himself and Christie, struggling to build them up, moving men and women like bricks and mortar to build them up!